The Blood of Brothers: A Sycamore Moon Novel (Sycamore Moon Series Book 2) (33 page)

 

 

 

 

Gaston's Harley V-Rod Muscle wobbled as he shifted his weight. It took a few seconds, but he regained his balance and continued south on the 89, on the trail of Sergio and Hector.

It was a simple highway, just a single lane in each direction, split only by dotted diagonal whites. Gaston took special care to focus on the paint, doing everything he could to stay on the road.

It wasn't easy to see with only one eye.

The blast from Hector's shotty had taken a few fingers off Gaston's left hand. The rest of the shot mangled his face and ear. It was all gone, but his right eye still worked. A skeletal grin played across the big man's face, no small feat through ripped muscle and blood.

The pain was unbearable. It continually threatened to shut the man down. He fought against it. Gaston would not rest. He wouldn't let the Pistolas get away from him that easily, no matter how much of a head start they'd gotten.

Not tonight.

The air was buzzing, a live wire of energy. Crisp. Cold against his open flesh. When he felt the tug of sleep, Gaston sped even faster, countering nature with adrenaline.

Gaston didn't know where he was going, but the building was close. North of Chino Valley. Ahead, he saw two motorcycles circle into the empty highway. The two individual headlights turned towards him, north, and raced closer.

It was a dark night, lacking the illumination of the moon. He couldn't see details, just headlights, but somehow Gaston knew it was them. Sergio and Hector. He was surprised. The Pistolas should have been heading south, back to the Imperial Valley. They should have been running.

The moon may not have been visible but it would guide Gaston well on this hunt.

The screaming engines neared and Gaston felt himself laugh. There was no sound against the coarse wind, just a guttural vibration.

Two headlights, coming up to meet him. He might as well pick one of them.

With last second abandon, the Seventh Son swerved into the opposite lane and charged the Pistolas. It wasn't a game of chicken as much as it was a sudden collision. Both bikes attempted to avoid him, but he met one of them head on.

Gaston's body launched off his V-Rod and slammed into another. Then he tumbled, first on asphalt, then dirt.

The world spun and stabilized. Gaston's knees and elbows raked against the street, unprotected by his simple muscle shirt and jeans. As the friction of pebbles and dirt scraped his skin, his body came to a stop. Gaston smiled. Better to match his face, he thought.

In the distance, a single brake light sped away.

Gaston heard a cry of pain. He turned and saw Hector Cruz stumbling across the street. Although he wore no shirt, his thick jacket and helmet had cushioned much of his injuries. He was frantic, flipping back and forth, searching for his bike.

That's right, thought Gaston. He didn't want him giving up yet.

The grounded motorcycles seemed a mile away. More importantly, Hector's shotgun was lost. Gaston rose to his feet and growled.

His ankle was hurt. Broken. Gaston couldn't put weight on it. He glanced at the injury like it was an annoyance, then gritted his teeth and put his weight on it anyway. A sharp groan escaped his lips as loose bone cracked, but the pain subsided with each step.

Hector slowed his movement when he noticed the other man. He watched in horror as the mangled form of Gaston Delacroix approached.

"You know," said Gaston, his skull showing, "I was hoping to hit Sergio, but I'm almost happier it worked out this way."

Hector Cruz dropped his jaw. His thick eyebrows and mustache stretched to their limits in disbelief. Then he bolted into the desert, slightly limping.

Gaston plodded patiently across the highway, unconcerned with the possibility of traffic, and began his hunt.

 

 

 

 

Kayda stumbled to the red pickup truck. It was so cold and lonely out here.

Where was everybody?

The driver's door was still partially open. Kayda leaned on it and drew it wider.

Kelan Doka sat in front of her, both elbows on the steering wheel for support. He was a mess. His buzzed hair was matted with blood, and his arms and face were covered in sweat. His breathing was sharp and ragged and rapid.

Kayda laughed. It was an odd reaction, she knew, but the weight of everything that had happened to their family over the last week threatened to crush her otherwise. It was their perfect dramatic tragedy, Shakespeare, played out to a tee. But Kelan was the cause of all of it. It felt right that she would see him like this before she passed.

In the distance a wolf howled, long and menacing. Kelan stirred and noticed his sister for the first time, but he didn't turn to her.

"I don't think I'm going to turn," he said. "The silver..."

Lost was the arrogance in his voice. No longer was he the over-confident brother she knew. Kayda suspected he must have been frightened. She didn't know what to tell him.

"Keekee..."

"You need to drive me," he said, picking his head up. "Take me to the old woman."

Her brother was ordering her around again. Kayda snorted, but it turned into a hacking cough and she spit out more red fluid. "Twice now, you've left me to die. Now, when it's your time, you ask to be saved?"

Kelan turned to her. His eyes were wide. She could see the wolf in his retina, a weak tint of red where the light caught it. But no strength remained in his gaze. He trembled like a child. Just as Kayda had seen at the police station, a sharp cut tore across Kelan's neck. Only this time, the line was jagged where his flesh folded outward. "I can't die," he gurgled.

Kayda Garnett put her palm on her half brother's chest. It was a gentle action, but there was no comfort in it. The bond of family was absent. Kelan struggled to feign a smile; all it did was reinforce the lie.

All those years growing up as a little girl—being picked on, hounded, pushed astray, and blamed for all their problems. Carlos, the hardened criminal. Kelan, the jealous trickster. It took her entire life to realize it, but her brothers had been right. She wasn't one of them. She never had been.

Kayda thought about her grandfather's words. "Death serves a purpose," she told her brother, and pulled him toward her.

Kelan was puzzled by the statement. He threw his arm against her shoulder to counter the pull. His elbow jarred against her bullet wound. It hurt, but Kayda bit down hard on her lip. More blood filled her mouth. She refused to open it else she might scream. Instead, she choked it down and forced him into an embrace.

"Is that not what you told our dear brother?" she asked. "That he would be sacrificed for the good of the tribe?"

Kelan pushed away with all his might but it did little. It amazed Kayda, her strength and his weakness. He had always been able to overpower her. Now he was of little concern.

Brother and sister exchanged another look before his will gave out. Kayda coughed again and blood spattered against Kelan's face, intermingling with his tears. Her lungs felt torn apart and she tasted a fresh mouthful of blood.

In a moment, free of shock or panic or confusion, she decided, if she was going to choke on someone's blood, it would be the blood of her enemy. The blood of her brother.

Kayda Garnett leaned in and gave her brother a gentle kiss on the cheek. Then she lowered her head and clamped her mouth around Kelan's throat. He tensed as she pressed close. She could feel his heart beating, not at his chest, but by the pumping of blood that leaked from his neck. It washed into her mouth: warm, salty, strong. It wasn't for Kelan anymore. The Doka brothers had bled their last drops. It was time for a change.

The girl jerked away, excited and horrified by the feeling surging within her. This time, when her lungs took in air, there was less pain. Her breath didn't wheeze out of her chest the way it had moments before.

Without pausing to consider her condition any further, Kayda tugged her brother out of the truck. He fell sideways and crumpled to the ground. She stood over him, looking down at the pathetic man, almost feeling sorry for everything he'd been through.

"How?" he cried weakly. "You're no wolf. How are you still alive?"

She stepped over Kelan and climbed into the truck.

"Witch," he rasped, before she slammed the door.

 

 

 

 

"Where's the ambulance?" screamed Maxim to the air. He knew he should have been clearing the rest of the buildings, but Garcia was close to losing consciousness. Besides, Diego had told him the back was empty.

Jim sat by the porch, dejected. Maxim and Diego had helped Garcia outside, but there were still no sirens. Maxim paced the front yard, holding the ACR, swearing that he would look into the possibility of a 911 blackout. He would burn any officers involved in that.

"Hold on, Ray," he said again. Each time he repeated the phrase, it had less power. He thought about the last thing the man had said, about Maxim's relationship with the Sons. Would those be his final words?

Before Maxim could yell again, his phone rang. It was Gutierrez.

"Sir, we're in pursuit of Sergio Lima, heading south on 89. He saw the roadblock and made a U-turn."

"Shit. Hector too?"

"We only saw Lima. Kent and I are in pursuit, but his bike's fast. He's losing us and I'm having trouble raising the local PD."

Maxim ground his teeth tighter. "Just get over here. Don't worry about police. Just make sure you get paramedics over here."

"I heard it over the radio. They're en route."

"Good."

Maxim ended the call and shook his head violently. If Sergio was on his way back here, that gave the detective another chance at him. He moved closer to the highway and scouted north. It was late and dead.

He glanced south to the rest stop where Garcia's Explorer was parked and began to return to the porch to recover the keys but stopped. Sergio was moving fast. Maxim didn't have time to run to the truck.

He heard a car start. The pickup truck in the yard spun around. It drove onto the rough sand before climbing back onto the packed dirt of the driveway. Headlights blinded Maxim and came closer.

Instinctually, he raised the assault rifle. The glare of the headlights kept him from seeing who was behind the wheel. He considered that it could be Kelan, and that he should fire, but then he noticed the man lying on the ground.

The split-second indecision cost Maxim his chance. The red pickup bore down on him. He dove to the side. He wasn't sure, but he thought the truck swerved away from him. Within moments, it was on the highway and headed south.

"Damn it! I thought you said it was clear!"

Maxim turned to Diego, who just shook his head and shrugged. He looked at the man lying beside him, eyes half open, breathing slowly.

Everything seemed hopeless. Everything had gone wrong. The dominoes were falling but the plays were haphazard, made out of desperation instead of calculated planning. And Garcia was too heavy a casualty.

Maxim wasn't going to let Sergio walk on that.

He flipped the ACR into his grip and stomped out to the street. He stood in the middle of the highway, in between both lanes, and saw the single light of a motorcycle.

Maxim braced the assault rifle against his shoulder, fully aware that it had been a while since he'd fired anything like this. He switched the firing mode to semi-automatic and aimed along the sights, waiting for the biker to get closer.

Sergio's speed on the flat street was impressive. He bore down on Maxim yet the police lights weren't in sight yet. He decided not to risk it. The detective stepped to the edge of the road to make sure his line of fire would not travel along the highway.

He could see him now. The skinny kid on his chopper. Arms high, head lowered. The ACR lined up perfectly with his center mass.

No. Maxim didn't want to let this motherfucker go that easily.

He lowered the rifle a nudge, targeting the motorcycle, and fired a single round.

The bike flipped. The headlight formed a circle on the street as Sergio tumbled from the machine. Both masses hopped and rolled and careened down the street, and Maxim had to get out of the way.

Sergio cried out in pain. Past him, the night sky turned red and blue in a manic frenzy.

Maxim turned as he heard more sirens coming from Chino Valley to the south. It was a paramedic truck.

He rushed to wave it down. It skidded to a halt and two men leapt out carrying a foldable stretcher and some equipment. They heard Sergio and headed for him.

"No. Fuck that guy. Agent Garcia is on the front porch. He needs a hospital right now. Call another van for the rest."

They nodded under his cold glare and wordlessly followed directions. Maxim heard Sergio calling out to him, insulting him or offering him a bribe. The detective didn't care. He didn't hear it. He just watched silently as the paramedics attended to the FBI agent.

Unfortunately, Raymond looked worse off than Sergio.

 

 

 

 

Gaston answered his brother. A deep howl that resonated in his chest and left the muzzle of his mouth. The animal felt the draw of the moon, invisible to most but not to his kind.

It reinvigorated him. Snapped his bones apart and back into place. His scraped skin gave way to a thick coat of brown fur. His torn muscles tightened and mended. Gaston Delacroix was whole again, and this time he felt better than ever.

The other wolf's call had come from West. He was far away, on his own hunt. Hotah yelped. It was a short cry followed by a long call. West was giving him all he could handle, and Kelan didn't answer.

Gaston wouldn't be joining them. Not yet. The president would enjoy his own blood tonight.

He sniffed the ground and quickly caught the scent. Sweat and gunpowder. Machine oil. Fear. Hector Cruz was known as the Mechanic, but he'd fixed his last engine.

Gaston's powerful paws bounded towards his prey, moving faster than the poor man could hope to outrun. It was unfair, really. But this wasn't about an even contest. Revenge wasn't supposed to be sporting. It was supposed to be one-sided and ruthless.

The feeble man hopped away ahead of him. He turned back and whimpered. The pathetic gangbanger stunk of beer and sweat and the soil in his pants.

Gaston went for the belly. He sidestepped a half-hearted swipe and dug his teeth deep. The blood in his mouth electrified him, and Gaston shook his head from side to side, savoring the feel of ripping flesh.

Within minutes, another howl overtook the plains. It resounded over all of Chino Valley, and Prescott, and the reservation. It was a message proclaiming, to anyone listening, who ruled Arizona.